“When your children shall ask their fathers in time to come, saying, What mean these stones? Then ye shall let your children know, saying, Israel came over this Jordan on dry land” – Joshua 4: 20-22 (KJV)
Introduction
On September 19, 2020, for the first time, as I crossed the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma, Alabama, I noticed in the small Civil Rights Memorial Park located adjacent to the Bridge on southeast side of Alabama River, a huge stone carved with one the Bible verses from the book of Joshua 4:20 -22.
I was stunned. In that instant the ancient command to set stones so future generations would ask and be taught folded over Selma’s own memorials: a sacred summons that memory must be named and explained, not left to silence.
In the Bible’s book of Joshua, twelve stones are set up after the Israelites cross the Jordan River so future generations will remember God’s deliverance. That pledge to remember felt especially meaningful to me.
After three decades in the Northeast, my wife and I relocated to Alabama that spring – trading winter’s snow for a warmer climate just as the COVID-19 pandemic arrived.
The year 2020 proved, as many noted, “A year like no other.” A global health crisis rocked the world, and in the U.S. the economy contracted sharply (U.S. GDP plunged about 32% in Q2 2020) while unemployment spiked. In fact, U.S. unemployment jumped from roughly 3.5% in February to a record 14.7% by April 2020.
By summer, the murder of George Floyd on May 25th had ignited protests in scores of cities across the country, sparking a nationwide reckoning with racial injustice.
On a quiet September morning in 2020, despite colleague’s concerns about safety, I took a spontaneous day trip to Selma, Alabama – my first time there.
I had long seen media coverage of Selma’s annual Bridge Crossing commemoration each March, when citizens and leaders gather to honor the 1965 marches.
But standing on the Edmund Pettus Bridge myself for the first time felt profoundly reverent and unexpectedly personal.
As a brief disclaimer upfront that I write this article as a personal reflection offered in humility and respect.
I am not a civil rights scholar, only an ordinary citizen who grew up in church pews listening to preachers talk about love and justice. My aim is not to provide a comprehensive academic history, but to honor the vision and sacrifice of movement leaders and to consider what their legacy asks of us today.
The Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma, Alabama is more than steel and concrete – it is revered ground, an enduring symbol of that 1965 struggle for “Voting rights” in the United States of America (USA).
On “Bloody Sunday,” March 7, 1965, about 600 peaceful marchers set out from Selma toward Montgomery but were stopped at this very bridge.
Alabama state troopers and deputized civilians – some on horseback – charged the unarmed protesters with batons and tear gas after they crossed the bridge.
The violence of that day, captured in photographs of marchers beaten on the bridge, shocked the nation and galvanized support for the voting-rights movement.
Standing on the Edmund Pettus Bridge that September morning, I felt part of something much bigger than myself. I tried to imagine the courage of those who returned two weeks later to march again – thousands of them ultimately completing the 54-mile journey to Montgomery (reaching the Capitol on March 24–25, 1965) to press for the right to vote. Those who crossed Bridge then helped spur passage of the Voting Rights Act later that year.
On that September day in 2020, I found myself walking where giants once walked – people like Congressman John Lewis and activist Amelia Boynton Robinson, among so many others who risked everything for equality. Each footstep on that old steel span reminded me I was standing on their shoulders, part of a long chain of ordinary people fighting for dignity and justice.
Now, on Martin Luther King Jr. Day, reflecting on my journey from pew to Pettus reminds me how faith and history intertwine. These stones – Joshua’s memorial stones in Gilgal and today’s commemorations in Selma – ask us to remember. If our children someday ask, “What do these stones mean?” may we have the wisdom and courage to answer with truth and hope.
From Sanctuary to Streets: How the Church Fueled the Movement
The Edmund Pettus Bridge is more than steel and concrete – it is a special place in the USA, a symbol of the 1965 struggle for voting rights. On “Bloody Sunday,” March 7, 1965, roughly 600 peaceful marchers left Brown Chapel A.M.E. Church and were met on the bridge by state troopers and deputized civilians. Troopers used batons and tear gas; many marchers were beaten and driven back into Selma. The images shocked the nation and galvanized support for the voting-rights movement.
The Selma campaign grew out of sustained organizing inside churches. Brown Chapel – with its Romanesque walls and long history as a community anchor – housed strategy meetings, workshops, and clergy training that converted religious conviction into civic practice.
Clergy such as the Rev. Fred Shuttlesworth, Rev. Ralph Abernathy, Rev. Hosea Williams, and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. drew authority from the Black Church. They framed voting access as both a spiritual and civic imperative: “Without the vote, a people is hopeless.” Organizers taught registration techniques at church meetings and in rural homes; church basements became civics classrooms.
For ministers who joined the front lines – John Lewis and Hosea Williams among them – theology demanded action.
When those worshippers stepped onto the Edmund Pettus Bridge, they were continuing the work their preachers began that morning: “Turning faith into public witness.”
Bloody Sunday: Faith Under Fire
On March 7, 1965, the confrontation at Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma, Alabama was not merely a clash in the streets; it was a collision between a disciplined religious witness and state power. The Selma marchers modeled disciplined nonviolence – presence in public, a willingness to be seen and counted – even in the face of violent repression. Their example forced a national conversation about racial injustice and helped create the moral pressure that moved lawmakers in Washington.
The question the marchers posed remains urgent: “What does faithful witness require when met with violence?” For Selma the answer was costly and clear – nonviolent courage, disciplined organization, and strategic persistence. Those lessons continue to inform how faith communities translate moral conviction into political consequence.
Bridge to Ballot: How Protest Produced Policy
The immediate political result of the Selma campaign was consequential. Within months of Bloody Sunday, Congress moved to address the crisis. The Voting Rights Act of 1965 – enacted that August – outlawed numerous racially discriminatory voting practices and expanded federal oversight of elections where discrimination had been entrenched. That law is a striking example of how street protest, sustained advocacy, and public outrage can catalyze durable policy change.
But the path from protest to legislation also illustrates a broader truth: Policy victories require sustained advocacy, institutional allies, and a public willing to act. The movement’s practical aim – securing the ballot – required translating moral energy into legal protections. That translation is a lesson for modern movements seeking to convert civic sentiment into lasting reform.
The Unfinished Promise: Selma’s Legacy Today
If Selma’s victories were watershed moments, the question now is whether those gains have endured. Key protections of the Voting Rights Act have been weakened in recent years, and scholars and advocates warn that without vigilant civic stewardship, the gains of 1965 can be eroded.
Selma today is both a site of commemoration and a diagnostic mirror. If the promise of Selma was meaningful access to the ballot, the “Unfinished” part shows up where procedural barriers remain, civic knowledge is uneven, and political power is distributed unequally. Preserving the right to vote therefore requires ongoing work – legal, educational, and institutional.
Bridging Generations: Preserving Sites and Civic Habits
Brown Chapel and similar sites are not simply monuments; they were active classrooms for civic training. Preserving these physical places and teaching their histories help new generations see how faith and citizenship once intertwined in practical ways.
But preservation faces structural and financial challenges. Historic buildings sit vacant; resources for living history are limited. Stewardship is not only a matter of heritage tourism; it is about keeping accessible the spaces where ordinary people learned to organize.
Transmitting the Selma legacy demands more than monuments. It requires curricula, local engagement, and mentorship so memory informs practice. When young people stand on the Edmund Pettus Bridge or visit Brown Chapel, the aim should be not only to feel moved but to understand the civic habits – registration drives, nonviolent training, community meetings – that turned conviction into consequence. How will we make those lessons part of ordinary civic education?
Hope on the Horizon: Memory as Responsibility
Commemoration alone will not secure lasting change, but it is essential fuel for action. Events such as Selma’s annual Bridge Crossing Jubilee keep public memory alive and provide a platform for education and civic engagement. These gatherings ask participants to translate memory into practice.
Practical steps follow naturally: Protect and expand easy access to voter registration; support nonpartisan civic education; preserve and fund historic sites; and encourage local institutions – churches, schools, libraries – to teach the civic skills that once met in basements and sanctuaries. Hope is not passive; it requires organized, everyday commitments to democratic participation.
Conclusion
The Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma, Alabama endures as a powerful symbol of the 1965 voting-rights marches – a memorial stone that asks each generation to account for what it will do with the memory it inherits.
Crossing that span in September 2020 and seeing Selma’s empty storefronts underscores an uncomfortable truth: commemoration alone does not guarantee social or economic progress. If the Selma movement succeeded in bringing the nation’s conscience to bear on voting rights, its fuller promise – economic opportunity, educational access, and community health – remains unfinished.
Remembering the sacrifice at Pettus must therefore move beyond feeling into responsibility.
Practical steps include protecting and expanding voter registration; supporting nonpartisan civic education in schools and community organizations; funding the preservation and programming of historic sites such as Brown Chapel; and investing in local economic development and social services that translate legal gains into everyday opportunity.
Local congregations, schools, libraries, and civic groups are natural places to cultivate the civic habits – registration drives, nonviolent training, mentorship – that turned moral conviction into political consequence in 1965.
If the carved stone at Selma asks future generations, “What do these stones mean?” Let our answer be clear: They remind us that memory requires stewardship. We honor those who walked across the Edmund Pettus Bridge not merely by remembering their courage, but by committing, in concrete ways, to the civic work that keeps their promise alive.
Disclaimer
This article is a personal reflection by the author, published on the author’s personal website for informational purposes only. It is not legal, historical, or professional advice. Reasonable efforts were made to ensure accuracy, but no warranty is made as to completeness or correctness.
Readers should verify facts with primary sources or consult qualified experts for authoritative guidance. The author accepts no liability for any loss or damage arising from reliance on this material.
Third-party content (images, quotations, links) remains the property of its rights-holders and may not be reused without permission.
To report errors or suggest corrections, please use the contact link on the author’s website.